Yeah, so long to your tree house, and dinner table street lights. There are no more grown ups to whistle. Not one beckoning you to “come inside”. The oil lamp hanging in that cob webbed corner? Has found its way to the garage sale replicating people. Lining up to chat their lemonade breaths sweet 'nd empty again. I realize now that it all was just a well endowed second hand lie. Would you die for me? Don't you fucking pry. Away at what helped me pass my days. Without feeling the need to face float in the neighbors pool until a scream screamed. Ataris, and leaky bean bags. Venture to snap back my snapped awareness. To a better time, nostalgic and cumbersome. Reminding my shrinking future of what should and shouldn't shrivel. Not to need the hologram rewind sticker on every box-less tape in plain sight. Shine away 'til you peel up tight and dirty. Your shadow, full of skin, fanning off pride. Stretching before the infinite. Inviting the bravest light back to ride. Come to me for focus. When fever holds an oil of olay bubbled heaven. Seven angels, swing these planets. Seven devils glue their fragments. Exploding heros take for granted each and every story planted. By a pair of dentures smiling for who knows a fuck why under that famed hairspray wig and smoker’s cough. It's a little too late now. When there's reducing shades of blue popping off in every direction plausible. And batteries that recharge themselves leaving you scratching your head. If yours is still there to scratch, that is. I talk to much about a past that's doing its best job to forget about me. Before I can remember why I even opened up to you in the first place. At least we have that in common. Love greased. Our hinges just obeyed.